Draco's Sorting
by PrincessOfSnark
Summary: Autistic Draco headcanon response. Written for a friend and posted here mainly for feedback. Draco Malfoy was nervous for his sorting, although few would have ever known. Draco's point of view of his arrival at Hogwarts. Warnings: Mild bad language, very vaguely implied child abuse or at least poor parenting, racism. Reviews would be much appreciated!


Draco was very uncomfortable. There were too many bodies and too many pairs of eyes. Even though no one was touching him he felt far too crowded and boxed in. Everyone was a bit nervous, so everyone was silent, and while silence was usually better than a cacophony of confusing conversations, this time the silence was too loud and heavy. It felt like it would swallow him. Maybe it would swallow them all. The antechamber off Hogwarts' entryway may have been fairly large, but with nearly 50 people standing around, even if most of them were fairly small given that they were still only children eleven years of age or twelve at the most, Draco felt the crowd and its oppressive silence closing in on him.

McGonagall spoke up then, shattering the anticipatory quiet with a voice that was far too loud and sharp. Already on edge from the crowd and, in spite of himself, nerves at his impending sorting – _hey, that was justified… it would, after all, determine the next seven years of his existence and the trajectory of his life beyond that_ – and at being away from home for the first time, Draco found it hard to concentrate on the voice that was talking at them. Her heard her, but he wasn't actually processing individual words or sentences as units that had any sort of meaning; it was all just overwhelming noise now mixed with a hyper, charged sort of silence. He barely resisted the urge to scowl in displeasure and put his hands over his ears to drown out the woman's droning speech.

As soon as the austere professor departed, chatter from excited and nervous young students filled the silence left in her wake. Soon most everyone was saying something, whether speaking to friends or muttering to themselves. Whispering the name of a desired house over and over as though it were a mantra and repetition would usher in reality, speculating – kindly or cruelly – on fellow schoolmates' sortings, betting – mostly candy, though there were a few confident wagers of a galleon or two – on where friends or rivals would end up, chatter about upcoming classes, and, of course, exchanges of theories about the mysterious sorting ceremony itself. Even among elite pureblood circles, where information was power and being uninformed was a grave mistake to be avoided at all costs as it was akin to openly declaring oneself inferior and inviting sharks to circle bloodied prey, it seemed that most families had kept to the tradition of not revealing the secrets of the sorting to those who had yet to undertake the ceremony. Draco tried to appear bored, as though he considered himself above all this useless childish prattling. He certainly did not want to get drawn in; he most definitely did not have a plan for this sort of small talk. Why hadn't he realized something like this might be necessary and come up with some sort of a brilliant script for it? A Malfoy should command the attention of room, whether through excellence in verbal skill or through an imposing air that spoke volumes via aloof silence, not be attempting to remain unnoticed so as to not need to participate in this horrific forced socialization.

The ginger Weasel created a small commotion of panicking gullible or clueless idiots when he loudly announced that his brothers had told him the sorting involved wrestling a troll, and Draco openly sneered at the brash boorish loudmouth. How could someone actually sound like they believed that? And why had he done anything to add to the already irritating chaos? "Weasley, you are an idiot." He drawled, causing the room's attention to turn to him. Luckily, he had managed to sound both supremely confident and utterly uninterested, as though the other boy's remark was so stupid as to be totally unworthy of further notice by anyone. Good, that was the tone he had been going for, the superior one in which his father carelessly dismissed whatever his political opponents said that was simply absurd and not worth further time in response. Draco suddenly felt confident that he could handle Hogwarts; after all, he had grown up using his father as a model, someone he could now imitate fairly well, and his father was the most brilliant, prominent, feared, and respected person currently amongst wizarding society. Well, pureblood wizarding society at least – the only sphere of society worthy of the label.

And he had handled the situation perfectly, Draco soon saw. At least the voices of those nearest him had subsided slightly as common sense prevailed over mass hysteria. Good. The volume in the room was back to the pre- Weasley outburst noise level now. Very good. He felt slightly satisfied by this; firstly in that he had exercised clear influence over the group, but primarily because the environment was now a tiny bit less panic-inducing and more tolerable. He was further pleased that he had been able to surround himself with his family's usual associates and keep as much distance as possible between himself and the unworthy. Proper purebloods could be relied upon to maintain at least some decorum in public without getting too rowdy and obnoxious, after all, and since he had known most of this lot for years he had studied them enough that their behavior was somewhat predictable and unlikely to confuse him any further than the situation had already.

Only his years of practice maintaining a public mask kept him from being visibly startled when the ghosts appeared. _Damn his parents for not helping him prepare, and not giving him the knowledge to create a plan or a script for this._ The first years were being called into the hall now. To calm his rising panic, Draco allowed himself to fidget slightly, needlessly smoothing his hair with one hand to ensure that nothing was out of place. His hair was gelled perfectly, of course. Good, there would be no sensory hell. But that still wasn't enough. He pulled his cloak – technically a winter one and too heavy for the early autumn, but his favorite so he didn't care – more tightly around himself, and he calmed slightly at the pressure.

 _Okay_ , he thought, doing a mental check-in. _Was he ready?_ He didn't appear to have a choice. _Was he ready?_ They were lining up whether he was or wasn't, so he supposed he had to be. He knew he looked perfect; he knew he was ready to appear as the perfect Malfoy, the perfect calm, poised, prepared pureblood heir. He looked ready, so yes, he could be ready. _Let your image be your armor. Deep breaths, Draco._ The line was moving. _Deep breaths, Draco. Your image is your armor_. He drew his shoulders back and held his head high, assuming the posture that he had practiced for many long years imitating his father's perfect poise in his brutally honest, cold mirror. _Deep breaths._ They stepped into the Great Hall, and he knew all eyes were upon them. _Your image is your armor. Let them see what you need them to see. Be the perfect Malfoy now, make mother happy and make father proud. Be believable._ He stood quietly and still as a statue waiting for the students ahead of him to be sorted, watching the sorting without really watching, seeing but not taking anything in. He would have been happy to note that to the other students this gave him the same sort of bored, haughty, vaguely superior expression that his father often wore.

"Malfoy, Draco," was called, and he strode forward to the stool calmly, acting for all the world as though he were perfectly comfortable in the situation and perfectly assured of the result. Only one of those things was true, of course, but both had to appear to be so he made it happen. _Deep breaths, Draco. Your image is your armor. Breathe._

He sat on the stool, and placed the filthy old hat on his head. It was touching his hair! His hair! _Breathe._ The hat spoke inside his mind and he resisted the urge to rip the thing off and hurl it as far away from him as possible. _Breathe. Focus. Be the best, be good enough, be worthy of calling yourself his son. Let them see what you want them to see, make sure they believe. Be good, be worthy, be –_ "SLYTHERIN," exclaimed the hat after only a few seconds of this litany that had felt to him like an eternity. _Deep breaths, Draco._ He slipped elegantly off of the stool, replaced the hat, then with a slight bow of the head to his new head of house – unfortunately including his headmaster in the gesture as well for the sake of playing the game – he took the few steps over to the Slytherin table. He had done it, he was as at home at Hogwarts as he could ever be. He had started to prove himself worthy. He was a Slytherin now.


End file.
